


gonna do you in

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Suit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:26:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David’s agent suggests a new photoshoot. Cook reaps the rewards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gonna do you in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devasenas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devasenas/gifts).



> For Nitya's birthday (which was way back in November D:) using her ‘Archie in a suit’ prompt. You probably didn’t intend for this to turn into a PWP (but if you did, hey, I delivered!) The title comes from ‘Sharp-Dressed Man,’ because why not? :P

His agent’s the one who suggests the shoot.  
  
“The photographer comes highly recommended,” she says, passing him the necessary documents to look over, “and we think it’ll be a real success with your core demographic, show the fans how you’ve grown, something a little more mature. What do you think?”  
  
There are samples of what he’ll be wearing mixed in with the schedule and other miscellaneous documents – tailored suit jackets, fitted button-up shirts, an array of ties and vests, and jeans that look a little more, um, snug than anything he’s ever been asked to wear before. There’s not a checkered polo shirt or hint of plaid in sight.  
  
He’s worn these things before, of course, suits starched and pressed for church and white button-ups tucked into age appropriate slacks for formal occasions, all crisp, clean lines meant not so much to make him look good but… safe. Unassuming. The kind of clothes a nice, young man would wear.  
  
These clothes, though… There’s nothing nice or safe about them. Even from just the photos David can tell that they’re tailored to be snug, tight, meant to show off rather than conceal. He can already imagine how they’ll hug his frame, show off the width of his shoulders and the length of his legs.  
  
They’re the type of clothes Cook would wear, David thinks with a jolt, the type that he  _has_  worn. David has the photos on his computer (in a folder that hopefully no one but him will ever see), Cook in button-up shirts, sleeves rolled up so his tattoos are on display, snug jeans and vests, staring dark and brooding into the camera.  
  
He’s not ashamed to admit that it’s that realization that spurs him into action.  
  
“I’ll do it,” he says.

//

 

A few weeks later there’s an email from his agent sitting in his inbox. Attached is a large ZIP file.  
  
David nearly holds his breath as he downloads the photos to his computer, leaning forward in anticipation as he extracts the files. He clicks on the first thumbnail when the folder pops up, glad that he’d gotten the email while Cook was still wrapping up his last few tour dates. He’d told the older man he’d had a shoot, but he’d been a little vague on the details, wanting it to be a surprise.  
  
The first photo shows David in the first outfit, fitted black slacks and a short-sleeved red button-up, snug black vest over that. A black tie completes the ensemble. His hair had been styled in the messy, effortless way he’s always so used to seeing on Cook, spiky and tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed, or as if someone had just finished running their fingers through it.  
  
He’s standing against a white background, fingers curled loosely in his belt loops. The make-up girl had used dark liner around his eyes and left the rest of his face bare; the result had been striking, his hazel eyes brighter, more defined.  
  
The second photo is David in the same outfit, though the tie has been discarded in this one, his shirt unbuttoned to show a flash of skin, the hollow of his throat and a hint of his collarbone visible. He’s leaning against a brick wall, one leg bent and his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his head turned so the line of his throat is visible.  
  
He skims through the rest, pausing at the ones that catch his eye – him staring at the camera, eyes dark, suit jacket over a white button-up, the long line of his legs clearly defined by the blood red, slim-fitted pants he hadn’t even been sure he’d be able to get into.  
  
The photo where he’s lounging in a leather chair in a dark blue collared shirt, tie hanging loose around his neck, gray vest molding to the contours of his chest and jean-clad legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s leaning his chin on his hand, pointer finger touching parted lips barely lifted in the beginnings of a smile. They’d told him to think of something that made him happy, so he’d thought of the text Cook had sent him just before the photoshoot ( _knock ‘em dead, babe ;)_ ).  
  
The last photo, him in the slate gray vest and tie, black suit jacket and pants tailored to perfection, stretching taut over the lines of his shoulders, tight around his hips and thighs. He’s wearing dark glasses, eyes hidden behind the frames, one hand buried in his spiky hair. He remembers how he felt in that suit, powerful and strangely alluring, how the crisp, sharp lines molded to his arms and legs, defined the musculature of his back and chest.  
  
He composes a new email, attaching ten of his favorite photos. He doesn’t type anything, just clicks on the recipient he wants and presses send before he can change his mind. In the next minute he takes out his cell, checking the time, and fires off a quick text to Cook.  _Check your email when you get the chance. Have a good show! xoxo_.  
  
Cook’s about to go on stage, David knows, so it’ll be a while before he checks his email. David powers down his computer, a knot of anticipation and excitement twisting in his stomach, and heads into the music room to distract himself.  
  
He’s just sitting down at the piano when his text notification goes off. It’s from Cook.

_Still have the clothes?_  
  
David swallows, typing back a reply with suddenly nerveless fingers.  _They let me keep the suit?_  
  
He waits for an agonizing thirty seconds, wondering if Cook had already gone out on stage, if he was going to have to wait until Cook’s set was over to get a reply. He nearly jumps when he gets the next text. It’s only one word.  
  
_Good_.

//

  
He’s waiting in the bedroom when Cook comes home a few nights later.  
  
He’s wearing the black suit and the gray vest, both as snug as he remembers, stretched out on his and Cook’s bed. His fingers had shook as he’d slipped the tie over his head, doing up the knot with tiny jerks. He had tried to fix his hair the way the stylist had done for the photoshoot, but one look in the mirror had confirmed he’d only managed to make it look bed-head messy rather than artfully messy.  
  
His skin is buzzing, a warm, throbbing hum just beneath the surface that makes him feel restless, a little out of control. The clothes rub tantalizingly against his skin each time he moves, the tight-fitting pants stretching taut over his groin, leaving no doubt as to how they’re making him feel. He wants, desperately, to touch himself, to relieve the mounting ache, but Cook’s footfalls on the stairs stay his hand, make him dig his fingers into the duvet as he waits –  
  
And then Cook is there, standing in the threshold, hair windswept and wild, breathing a little hard like he’d rushed up the stairs and such a welcome sight after weeks on tour that David wants to scramble off the bed and rush to meet him, touch him, but he doesn’t. He waits, even though his skin is on fire, even though the ache building in his chest and groin grows unbearable the longer Cook looks at him (and oh gosh, the way he’s looking at David, gaze slow and simmering and making David feel like he’s wearing nothing at all – )  
  
“Cook,” he starts, a sharp exhalation of the older man’s name, a plea and a demand all at once. “ _Come here_.”  
  
It’s like his voice is the catalyst Cook needs to spur himself into action, and David reaches for him as Cook climbs up onto the bed, fisting his hands in Cook’s t-shirt as the older man straddles his lap. Cook’s already hard, and David whimpers as he imagines Cook flying home, sitting in the back of a taxi imagining this moment, reacting to the thought of David waiting on him, of David wearing the clothes from his photoshoot.  
  
“Missed you,” David murmurs, twining his fingers in the hair at Cook’s nape and parting his lips to welcome Cook’s hard, bruising kiss.  
  
“Missed you, too, baby,” Cook moans between biting, sucking kisses, pressing David down into the mattress. He pulls back to look at him, and David shivers at the man’s rapt, lustful gaze. “God, David, you look – “ Cook runs his fingertips over the line of David’s throat, down over the knot of his tie and along the clean, tailored edges of the vest. The warmth of his skin, even through two layers of clothes, is overwhelming after the past long weeks of separation, and David arches into it, chasing the feeling.  
  
“You like it?” David asks, relaxing into the mattress and lifting his hands to run along the muscled lengths of Cook’s thighs, building up a heat in the material of his jeans. He loves the way Cook’s looking at him, the way he feels, the way  _Cook_  feels, warm and heavy on top of him, and he wants to grind his hips up into the cradle of Cook’s groin, wants to strip Cook naked and feel his skin.  
  
Cook’s eyes go dark, his big hands pressing flat against David’s chest. “Like it?” he repeats, running his palms over the material. His gaze is reverent and worshipful and  _hot_ , and David bites his lip on a gasp, his hips surging up to press intimately against Cook’s. Cook lets out a hiss. “ _Fuck_ , David, do you even know what you look like?”  
  
David does; he remembers the photos, how powerful he’d felt in the suit, how  _sexy_ , and Cook’s searing gaze makes him feel even more so.  
  
“Show me,” he says, and swallows Cook’s needy groan with his lips.  
  
It’s in-between frantic, desperate kisses that he feels Cook’s fingers plucking at his tie, at the buttons on his vest, his shirt, splitting the fabric aside so he can slide his palms up the expanse of David’s bare chest. He makes no move to remove the clothes, merely pushes them out of the way so he can fit his mouth to the curve of David’s jaw, his adam’s apple, the hollow of his throat.  
  
David bites his lip, slipping his fingers into Cook’s wild, windswept hair as the older man leaves meandering kisses along his upper chest. Cook’s fingers curl around his hips as he tongues one of David’s nipples, and David gasps, arching into the tough and feeling Cook’s lips curl into a smile against his skin.  
  
“Cook,” he breathes, curling his free hand into the sheets as Cook presses a rough, scratchy kiss to his navel, the brush of his beard against David’s skin sending bolts of heat directly to David’s groin. “Please… “  
  
“Love seeing you like this,” Cook rasps, his mouth hot against the waistband of David’s slacks. In seconds he pops the button free and pulls the zipper down, and David watches with hooded eyes as the older man nuzzles against his bare cock, grateful beyond measure that he’d decided to forego underwear when he’d gotten dressed earlier that evening.  
  
Nothing prepares him for the sight of Cook’s lips skimming along his shaft, or the way Cook’s long, rough fingers feel as they reach into his slacks, lifting his balls over the v of his open zipper, until he’s totally exposed to Cook’s ravenous gaze.  
  
His fingers clench in Cook’s hair, twining roughly around the strands as Cook sucks the swollen head of his cock into his mouth without preamble, groaning around David’s hot, rigid flesh, as if David’s dick is the best thing he’s ever tasted, as if he’s  _hungry_  for it.

“Oh, oh, oh,” David moans breathlessly, his raspy cries loud in the relative silence of their bedroom, coupled with the wet sounds of Cook’s mouth around his cock. His hips arch off the bed as Cook starts to suck, the sensation wringing desperate whimpers from his throat, heat pooling in his groin. Cook wraps his hand around the base of David’s cock, sliding his lips and tongue along the head, pulling off only to sink back down, and David feels his balls drawing up tight to his body as Cook’s tongue curls around his cockhead, brushing tantalizingly against his leaking slit. “ _Oh_!” he mewls, hands cupping the back of Cook’s head, fingers clenching in his hair as Cook sinks back down around him. “Oh, Cook, right there… right there… “  
  
Cook’s fingers dig into the material of his slacks, clenching around his thighs, and David groans at the sight of him, of both of them, his cock jutting from his slacks, Cook’s mouth sinking down over his shaft, the older man buried between David’s thighs. The fact that his clothes are only pushed out of the way instead of off, his suit jacket, vest, and shirt open and exposing his chest, his nipples hard and aching, red marks along his chest and stomach from Cook’s beard, only serves to heighten the experience for David, and he can feel the familiar rush of his release building in the base of his spine, his groin.  
  
“Cook, I’m – “ he tries to warn. Cook pulls off, breathing hard, a string of saliva connecting his red, swollen lips to the moist head of David’s cock, and David screams as Cook swallows him back down, his back bowing off the bed as he comes.  
  
Cook keeps him tucked into his mouth as he comes down from his orgasm, tonguing him gently through the aftershocks, until David clutches weakly at his shoulders, shuddering as Cook’s lips and tongue brush against his sensitive skin.  
  
He pulls Cook up to his mouth, gasping at the feel of the other man’s erection, covered by the rough material of his jeans, pressed against David’s spent groin. Cook’s kiss is hard and desperate, and David wraps his legs around Cook’s waist, feeling the hot, hard length of him twitch between their bodies.  
  
Even with his limbs still trembling from his release, David is able to roll Cook onto his back, swallowing his surprised moan with a biting kiss. When he pulls back it’s to the sight of Cook sprawled on his back beneath him, hair mussed and wild, eyes dark and gleaming, and his lips red and swollen and wet.  
  
David slots their hips together, a sweet, sated smile on his lips, and reaches for the hem of Cook’s t-shirt.  
  
“My turn,” he says.


End file.
